


the dreams we have as children

by moonrocks



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Babysitting, Bullying, Fatherhood, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks
Summary: An incident with Brian causes Holden to reflect on his own upbringing.
Relationships: Holden Ford & Bill Tench, Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	the dreams we have as children

**Author's Note:**

> Warning I guess for mentions of real serial killers. This is Mindhunter after all.

As Holden steps out of the car, a leaf crunches beneath his shoe. It's the familiar sound of the changing seasons, warm and crackly in his ears. The sun peeks out between cotton ball clouds. The air is cool and crisp like a freshly picked Granny Smith. Yellows, reds, oranges, and browns paint the oak trees in bucolic pastiche.

Holden breathes a sigh of relief.

After spending hours in a stuffy airport, the biting Virginian breeze is a welcome repose. It rained the whole two days Holden was in California. Spending that much time cooped up with Gregg in a motel room with only three TV channels was starting to eat away at his sanity.

Holden grabs his bag from the passenger side and makes his way through the parking lot.

His apartment is as he left it. His muddy jogging sneakers are still by the door. Dust is collecting on the staticky television screen. But he can tell Bill has been around to drop off his mail and water his very sad looking plant, the same one he bought after Bill commented on how poorly decorated his place was one too many times.

It was strange not having Bill there in California. Although, Holden has been getting used to seeing Bill less at work and more outside of it. Several months ago, Bill decided to take time off to sort things out with Nancy. If you can call getting a divorce sorting things out.

When Bill moved into the spare apartment three floors above Holden, he said it would be temporary. Three months later, Holden is beginning to think Bill likes having him as a neighbour.

Holden shuffles through his mail, but staves off opening any of it. First, he wants to wash away the grime of travelling. After mulling over case files, fascination masked disgust always seems to find him. He wants to wash that away too.

He runs the shower and steps in, letting the hot water trickle down his back and relax his cramped muscles. Exhaustion pours out through his fingertips as he lathers. The grainy anxiety that comes from sitting next to a convicted murderer begins to dissipate.

He was so close this time, so close that Holden could see the dirt underneath his fingernails. He had wood shavings on the lapel of his prison blues and a red handcuff mark on his pale and hairy wrist. The smudges of his aviator rim glasses caught the glare of the lightbulb swaying above the table.

Holden used to be able to distance himself from his work a lot easier. The words he needed to loosen a confession would fall off his tongue like they were never part of him in the first place. The dark and murky places he went to find them remained separate and unfamiliar. Yet, after Kemper and Vacaville, the unease stays with him long after the interview is over. It follows him home, hanging above him like a bad sign.

The subject this time was Patrick Kearney. Forty-two years old. A former aircraft engineer and resident of California. Three years ago, he was convicted for the murders of twenty-one young men, but he could have killed as many as forty. Many were hitchhikers, prostitutes, or runaways. Many had homosexual backgrounds. Sometimes they were attractive, young and eager and well-groomed. Other times they looked like the boys who bullied him in school.

Above the noisy spray of water, Holden can hear the scrape of chains as they drag against a grimy prison floor. A lumbering figure sits down in front of the tape recorder, microphone poised at the ready. Holden scrubs at his skin until it stings, pink and raw. Eventually, conversations of pig slaughter, corpses, and hacksaws feel faint and washed away.

He turns the water off.

Finding his way into his bedroom, Holden dries himself off. He changes into jogging pants and an old sweatshirt with an FBI Academy moniker fading on the front. He unpacks, throwing dirty clothes into the laundry hamper and a stack of case files onto the bed. As he sets an almost empty bottle of Valium on his nightstand, someone knocks on his apartment door. His chest feels tight, but he goes to answer it anyways.

Bill is standing there when it opens. He nonchalantly smokes a cigarette, leaning up against the door frame. He wears casual clothes: a knitted black pullover and jeans. It catches Holden off-guard, even though Bill rarely wears suits outside of Quantico.

“Can you do me a favour?” Bill asks.

Holden almost wants to close the door. Instead, he lets out a snort, allowing the sudden appearance of his partner to ease some of the tension off his back. For a brief moment, he admits to himself that he missed him.

“What? No welcome back?” Holden asks.

Bill remains somewhat straight-faced. Holden finds some comfort in the smirk trying to crack through. “I thought you were getting in last night.”

“The flight was delayed.”

“Well, welcome back.”

Holden smiles. He ignores the masked sarcasm that downplays any fondness in Bill’s voice. Bill takes another drag of his cigarette. He purses his lips and blows smoke away from Holden. Holden accidentally eyes the bare ring finger his cigarette is perched on.

Bill still wears his wedding ring at work, presumably so no one asks. Wendy knows—it would be hard to hide anything from her—and Gregg might have a clue. Bill has become much less involved in interviews, likely tipping Gregg off to what has been going on. Meanwhile, Ted and the newly recruited members of the BSU remain ignorant. Bill probably intends to keep it that way, at least for a little while.

Bill has only talked about it a handful of times since Nancy put divorce on the table. Holden can tell he wants to get it off his chest, even when it remains unsaid. They move under a set of pretences. Anything meaningful is said with glances in between conversations about interview schedules or the training program. It always seems like Bill is an inch away from saying something. When he does talk, it is usually over greasy takeout and a couple beers. Holden finds himself wondering whether Bill sees him as a confidant or just the most convenient option.

The cherry end of Bill’s cigarette glows orange as he inhales.

“If you want to come in you’ll have to put that out,” Holden points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No need.” Bill looks down at his feet for half a second. He almost appears sheepish. “I wouldn’t normally ask this, but could you watch Brian for a few minutes? I have to talk to Nancy about something in private and sometimes he runs off if you leave him alone too long.”

“Sure, Bill,” Holden says, a little surprised. “Is everything alright?”

He leans over and peers past Bill into the hallway. Brian is standing near the elevator, his arms at his sides. He looks smaller than any seven-year-old boy should in his green and blue striped sweater. The sleeves are too long, hanging down near his knuckles.

After Bill told him what happened, Holden went to the library to find reports on the incident. For some reason, he was overtaken by a morbid curiosity to know what Bill was going through. It was like Bill said. A two-year-old boy was smothered to death in the local park, then brought to an empty house to be crucified. Afterwards, rag had been draped over his face like a makeshift Shroud of Turin.

At first glance, Holden has a hard time imagining Brian in that dingy basement. He imagines dust falling from the rafters onto a pair of grass-stained denim overalls, small fingers tying even smaller wrists. Brian is so still and quiet, barely present at all like you would never know he was there unless you knew where to look. That more than anything lets Holden place him in that park. 

Holden feels sick to his stomach thinking about it. However, the disquiet fades as he watches Brian press a tentative ear against the door. He listens to the mechanisms turning inside the elevator shaft with childlike inquisitiveness. He seems younger than his age. The regressive pattern of behaviour Bill mentioned is apparent.

Holden almost manages a smile when Brian looks at him, but then the lowlight catches his face as he turns his head. A blotchy, pinkish-red bruise is blooming high on his otherwise unblemished cheekbone.

Bill lowers his voice. “He’s been having some trouble with the kids at his new school.”

He sounds bitter as he says it.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Bill presses his lips into a thin line. “Brian, come over here.”

On the other side of the hallway, Brian shifts like he hears him, but he continues staring as the indicator. The elevator climbs from the second floor to the third, then the fourth. The grimy buttons glow bright yellow.

“Brian,” Bill repeats, sternly this time, but Holden holds up a hand.

He sneaks by Bill, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder as he goes. He approaches Brian, the footfall of his socked feet quiet on the carpet. The boy turns to look at him. His dark hair is a bit overgrown and falls into his round and blank eyes. Holden stoops down beside him. He glances over his shoulder at Bill who is watching them expectantly.

“Hi, Brian,” Holden says, friendly but calm. “My name is Holden. Do you remember me? I was over at your house before. I work with your dad.”

Brian only blinks at him. He must be used to strangers trying to get on his good side. Police officers, child psychologists, teachers, education specialists, social workers. Holden looks at Bill again. His shoulders have deflated, teeth worrying his cigarette. Holden gives him a small smile, then turns back to Brian who is staring at the elevator buttons still.

“Pretty cool, huh? I like it when the buttons light up.” Holden reaches over and presses the down arrow. Brian raises his eyebrows as it flashes on. “And now look.”

Holden points to the indicator as the elevator comes back down one, two, three floors. Brian raises his chin to watch. The doors slide open with cheery ding. Holden thinks he sees the corners of Brian’s mouth almost upturn in a smile. Bill walks over and bends down to kiss Brian on the top of his head.

“Holden is going to hang out with you for a few minutes while I talk to your mom. Is that okay?”

Brian nods, but his eyes are down at his shoes.

“Thanks, Holden,” Bill says. He places a comforting hand on his back, mirroring the gesture from before. The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin material of his sweatshirt. “I won’t be far.”

Bill steps inside the elevator. Before he can select a floor, Holden puts an arm out to keep the doors from closing.

“Do you want to press the button?” he asks Brian.

“Come on.” Bill waves Brian into the elevator. He places his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Number eight. You remember.”

Brian extends a stubby index finger and pushes the button down on the number pad. Warmth curls in Holden’s chest as he watches Bill smile. It feels like a small victory. Brian brightens.

“Nice one,” Bill tells Brian and shuffles him out of the elevator. Brian settles back beside Holden. “Behave yourself.”

Holden retracts his arm and the elevator doors close.

Back in his apartment, Holden turns the television on. He fishes around in the kitchen cupboards for something a kid might like to eat. He finds a box of Goldfish Crackers he hopes haven’t gone stale and empties it into a plastic popcorn bowl.

Brian is standing beside the couch. He has one foot crossed over the other, watching as an advertisement for cat food plays on TV. Holden sets down the bowl on the coffee table and changes the channel.

“What do you like to watch?” Holden asks.

He gauges Brian’s reaction as he flips through several cartoons. When he reaches _Scooby-Doo_ , Brian shifts, scooting over to sit on the couch. Holden smiles.

“Good choice.”

Holden sits down on the other side.

“So,” he says awkwardly. “Are you excited about Halloween?”

No answer.

Holden sighs.

Halfway through the episode, Brian is munching away on Goldfish Crackers. Holden checks the clock, hoping everything with Bill and Nancy is okay. Their conversation is running longer than expected. Either that or Bill undersold how much time it would take to rope Holden into a pro bono babysitting job. Not that he minds.

Scooby and Shaggy skitter through a haunted house to the beat of a bubblegum pop song. It reminds Holden of the hours he spent watching _The Dick Tracey Show_ growing up. His mother would be working the late shift while his father graded essays underneath dim lamplight at the dining room table. Holden glances at the injury on Brian’s cheek. He feels the ghosts of his own bruises flare up on his skin.

Growing up in a slew of midwestern towns, there were always boys at school who used to push him around. They were boys with perpetually scabbed knees from sliding through supermarket parking lots. Boys from fractured homes who used broomstick handles and adhesive tape as bats. Holden was always smaller, more timid. It made him an easy target.

By the time he reached middle school, he knew which streets to avoid on his way home. His bookbag had been ripped open and his homework strewn about the street one too many times. Even more so, he hated his mother fussing over him whenever he came home with another split lip.

“I might have an ice pack,” Holden says, motioning towards his own cheek to illustrate what he means. “Do you want one?”

Brian looks at him curiously. There are cracker crumbs on his face. He raises a hand to his cheek, fingers covering the bruise. Holden gets to his feet to open the freezer. He grabs the ice pack sitting next to a quart of ice cream, then sets it down on the arm of the couch for Brian to use or not use.

“And I would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids!”

The episode of _Scooby-Doo_ ends, fading into reruns of _The Flintstones_. Brian sets the almost empty bowl of Goldfish Crackers down beside him, then reaches for the ice pack. He presses it onto his cheek with a quiet wince.

“I know how it feels,” Holden says with a sad smile. “Bullies used to pick on me in school all the time. They used to make fun of my haircut and my clothes, how I walked, how I talked, how I answered questions in class.”

Recognition passes over Brian’s face. He shifts towards Holden, back pressed against the arm of the couch as he drops his hands into his lap. Holden mirrors him.

“My father was a teacher. I think they thought I got special treatment because of that,” Holden continues. “I was a bit of a know-it-all too, which didn’t help.” He laughs, shaking his head at himself. “I used to hide in the bathroom during lunch sometimes and read _The Hardy Boys_. Have you ever read _The Hardy Boys_?”

Brian shakes his head.

“I have some of the books still. If you want, I could show them to you.”

Brian nods.

“Okay, wait here.”

Holden rummages around his bedroom closet. He finds a musty cardboard box tucked away in the corner. Setting it on his bed, he runs his hands over the dust. The books he was looking for are inside, along with yellowing family photos, a stack of old ticket stubs, a red yo-yo with a broken string. Holden finds a baseball from a Yankees game and the threadbare glove he caught it in. A Monopoly board held together with Scotch tape and other miscellaneous mementos fill the spaces in between. Most of it is sentimental junk Holden should have thrown out in college. For some reason, he kept it even after moving to Virginia. It stays tucked away in the corner of his otherwise characterless apartment, rarely thought of or looked at.

Holden hauls the box into the living room and Brian gets to his feet to peer inside as he places it on the coffee table. Holden shuffles around some things until he finds the stack of books. Their fading blue and cracked spines are achingly familiar.

“They might be a bit above second grade reading level, but maybe Bill—your dad I mean—can read them to you.” Holden hands one of the books to Brian. His fingers trace the edges of the pages, then the title written in uppercase letters. “That one was always my favourite.”

Brian examines the covers. They are illustrated by the embodiment of boyish adventure. Daring chases and perilous escapes. Ghostly freighters obscured by mist. Oak trees with shimmering treasure hidden inside the hollow. There are mountains made of skulls and rickety old mansions with a sole light on in the attic.

Holden is about to tuck the box back in the closet when someone knocks on the door, presumably Bill. Setting the box down in the kitchen instead, Holden goes to answer it.

Bill stands on the welcome mat, cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, one hand in his pocket. He looks more tired than he did when he left. The smell of tobacco thick is around him like he smoked an entire pack in the meantime. Holden ignores the urge to ask how things went with Nancy.

“Brian, your dad is here,” Holden calls.

Brian is too distracted by his new books to look over, still fiddling with the cover but too hesitant to open it.

“How’d things go?” Bill asks tentatively.

“Good,” Holden assures. “Quiet mostly. We watched _Scooby-Doo_.”

“Did he talk at all?”

Holden shakes his head. “Not really, but he did eat the snack I gave him. Hopefully, I didn’t spoil his dinner.”

Bill motions discreetly to his right. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Holden notices Nancy standing at the other end of the hallway. At first glance, Nancy and Bill look like mirrors of each other. They both appear drained. Sleeplessness bruises their eyes and their faces obscured by a smoky haze. Bill is turned towards Holden, the cigarette in his mouth relaxed by a half-smile. Nancy is turned away, her cigarette clutched between two fingers like it might snap in two. Holden can only stare at the tight curls at the back of her head. He wants to say hello. He wants to ask her how things are going with the new house and the new neighbourhood. Yet, everything feels so fragile, like a gust of wind could shatter what remains of the Tench family.

Holden shoots Bill a look that might be concern or might be uncertainty. Bill shakes his head. Holden holds his tongue.

Eventually, Brian finds his way to the door, books tucked underneath his arm. Bill ruffles his hair. Brian stares up at him but says nothing, bangs falling back into his face, eyes falling to the carpet again. Bill spots the books and takes one from him, curiously turning it over in his palm.

" _The Hardy Boys_.” He smiles. “I remember these.”

“Brian wanted to borrow a few. I hope that’s okay,” Holden says.

He sees Nancy turn towards him in his periphery. Self-consciousness creeps down his neck. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill, but she doesn’t walk over. Instead, she waits, arms crossed.

Holden meets her eyes. For a moment, they soften with something indistinguishable. Her grimace tenses and falls away. As Holden tries to decipher it, he catches himself staring too long. He offers her a friendly wave if only to break up the tension. All it does is stir the awkwardness in the room. Nancy smiles tightly and waves back, nothing more than a formality.

“Brian, what do we say?” Bill says in the meantime, urging his son forward.

Brian timidly looks up at Holden. A beat passes. He says nothing and his gaze drops. Bill sighs and Holden readies a reassurance in his throat, but then Brian speaks.

“Thank you. For the books.”

Bill smiles, a real smile, and Holden’s breath arrests.

“You’re welcome,” he says, trying not to let it affect him. Warmth swells in his chest. “I hope you like them.”

Nancy looks at her watch. “Bill, it’s almost six. Brian and I have to get going.”

“Alright, time to go,” Bill says, clapping his hands together.

He grabs the rest of the books from underneath Brian’s arm and ushers him out of the apartment. Bill looks on as he returns to his mother’s side. She fusses over him briefly, brushing cracker crumbs from his mouth and lifting his chin up to inspect the bruise.

“The swelling is going down,” she tells Bill.

“I gave him an ice pack,” Holden says. “I thought it might help.”

Nancy nods, hugging Brian close to her side. Bill places a comforting hand on Holden’s shoulder in what might be a wordless thank you. He then joins Nancy and Brian at the end of the hallway to see them off.

Holden shuts his apartment door. He sits at his kitchen table to finally go through his mail, his box of childhood things staring at him from across the room.

An hour later, Holden is about to fall asleep to the muffled drone of the news when Bill knocks on his door. This time, he brings Chinese takeout. Holden lets him in without protest and pads into the kitchen to fish around for a couple of beers.

They sit at the table in the living room. Holden slumps forward and rubs at his tired eyes.

“How was California?” Bill asks, unpacking the food and sliding a box of Kung Pao chicken across the table to Holden.

Holden breaks apart his chopsticks. “Rainy.”

“I meant the interview. Did Kearney talk?”

“For the most part. We went over his family history, how he went about the killings, where he brought the bodies. But he seemed more than reluctant to talk about what he did with them afterwards.” Holden grimaces, the hours he spent hunched over gruesome case files flooding back to him. “So that was a dead end.”

Bill raises his eyebrows.

“Pun unintended,” Holden deadpans. “You’ll have to listen to the tape. Tell me what you think.”

“Will do.”

They eat in relative silence for a while. Bill fiddles with the knob on the TV, changing the channel every couple minutes, never settling. Holden wonders if Bill brought him takeout as a thank you for babysitting Brian. Alternatively, it could just be the preface for Bill getting drunk enough to stop hiding his personal problems.

Not wanting to confront that yet, Holden turns his attention back to Kearney. Sometimes he thinks serial killers are easier to understand than interpersonal relationships.

Holden pokes around at his food. He stirs the chicken and sauce into his steaming box of rice, but his appetite takes a backseat as he mulls over the interview. Compared to Pierce and Hance, Kearney was eager to discuss his methods. However, everything he said was bogged down by a need to repent. Holden almost prefers the killers who abandon the remorse act as soon as the gavel hits the podium. Unearthing their motivations is a simpler task when apologies are left for parole officers.

“It always seems to start with animals,” Holden says, skewering a piece of meat with the end of his chopstick. “Kemper, Bundy, DeSalvo, Gacy, even Berkowitz shot his neighbour’s dog.”

“So?” Bill asks between chews. “What does this tell us?”

“I’m not sure yet. Did you have time to go over the files I gave you?”

“I skimmed them.”

“Well, when the time came, Kearney knew exactly how to kill his victims. He shot them right behind the ear.” Holden raises a hand to his own in a mock gun gesture. “He learned how growing up on his father’s pig farm. He would even kill pigs that weren’t meant for the slaughter. It’s like what Kemper said. It’s a practice run.”

Bill makes a face, staring down at his plate. “Do you think we should start considering a history of animal abuse for our profiles?”

“Tentatively, maybe, but I’m not sure of the correlation. I’d have to talk to Wendy,” Holden says as he skewers a piece of meat on his chopstick and inspects it. “Y’know, Kearney used to roll around in the viscera of the dead pigs.”

Bill all but greens. “Jesus Christ, Holden, I’m trying to eat.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Holden looks down into his noodles. He racks his brain for something else to talk about. Bill and his son are different in more ways than one, but their ability to stump Holden in conversation is cut from the same cloth.

“So, how are things?” Holden asks.

Bill looks up from his dinner. His face is unreadable. The shadows cast by the lowlight of the lamp make the lines on his face appear deeper than usual. Bill lets the question hang there for a moment and it threatens to fizzle out without an answer.

“Things?” Bill asks finally.

Holden fiddles with a stray noodle at the bottom of his takeout box, trying to appear nonchalant. He shrugs. “You know.”

“Things as in divorce things? As in none-of-your-business things?”

“Hey, whose living room are you in?” Holden quips, gesturing with his chopsticks.

“Alright, point taken,” Bill says with a smirk that quickly fades. “Things are fine. Nancy is still pissed at me, her lawyer is trying to bleed me for all I’m worth, but I don’t really give a shit as long as I get Brian on weekends.”

“Well, that’s good then,” Holden says. 

He suppresses the visible relief that comes with Bill being so forthcoming.

“I guess so.” Bill sighs and rests his fork on the coffee table, batting away his empty plate. He grabs his beer but doesn’t drink from it, only clutches it in his hand. “I, uh, I just wanted to say thanks again for watching Brian.”

Holden offers him a half-smile. “He’s a good kid. For what it's worth.”

“Yeah, well, apparently that makes him a target at this new school,” Bill says. “Normally, my advice would be to wallop the bastards back, but you can see why that wouldn’t fly.”

“Is that what you would do as a kid?” Holden asks.

Bill nods. “When my brothers were getting rough with me. What would you do?”

“Run.”

“You wouldn’t tell a teacher?”

“My dad was the teacher. If I told him, I’d get it worse the next day.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid so.” Holden’s stomach bubbles as Bill tries to choke down a chuckle and fails. It presses Holden forward, loosening his tongue. “Look, I know it’s not my place to say, but you’re a good dad, Bill. At least you’re trying.”

Bill bristles, but then he appears to soften. He takes a sip from his beer. Holden does the same and the silent camaraderie that finds a home between them is a much-needed comfort.

“If that’s true, why won’t Brian talk to me?” Bill says in a hushed tone, like how he used to sound when he talked to Nancy on the phone. “I get a word out of him twice a week at most.”

“You’re not the only one he won’t talk to,” Holden replies with a frown. “Kids can be difficult.”

Bill snorts. “How would you know?”

“Believe it or not, I was one once,” Holden says. “You were too, unless you came out like this, with a pack of cigarettes in each fist.”

Bill smiles, one that sticks around for a bit longer this time. Holden counts it as a victory.

“I guess you’re right,” Bill says.

“I usually am.”

“You better not hold that against me.” Bill squints as he inspects the contents of his beer. He sloshes it around inside the bottle to hear the unfilled space. “Can I get another one of these?”

“Sure, help yourself.”

Bill goes into the kitchen to rustle around the contents of the refrigerator. Holden is changing the television channel when he hears a sudden crunch of cardboard. Eyebrows furrowing, he looks over his shoulder. Bill has accidentally kicked over his box of childhood things.

“Shit,” Bill swears under his breath.

Before Holden can stop him, Bill is stooping down and rifling through it. Holden pinches the inside of his cheek with his teeth, willing heat not to rise in his face. Bill picks up the baseball mitt first, then carefully puts the yo-yo and Monopoly board back in the box. One of Holden's family photo albums lies open and face up on the floor. Bill regards it with care as he begins to put it back, but he pauses. Something makes him linger a bit longer.

Holden walks over, hellbent on getting it away from Bill before he can get a good look, but he stops himself halfway. He watches as Bill brushes a thumb over a faded and monochrome photo of him. It must have been taken in the early sixties. He was about seven years old at the time. His father was much older, grinning by the lake, bespectacled with thinning hair.

His father was never the outdoorsy type. But, they did go fishing one summer. It was the same summer Holden got poison ivy for the first time and had to soak his ankles in calamine lotion. The urge to snatch the album from Bill is overtaken by the force of the memory.

“How come you never talk about your dad?” Bill asks as he stands and straightens. He offers the photo album back to Holden, but Holden lets him hang on to it a little longer. “You’ve mentioned him a couple times, but never anything more than a mention.”

“I guess we were never that close,” Holden explains. “He was there, but you know how it is. He gets older, you get older, then the most you ever get from him is a tie in the mail whenever you start at a new job.”

Bill smiles sadly. “That’s a lot more than I ever got from my old man.”

He nods towards the album and Holden finally takes it from him. Their fingers brush, a sigh of a touch, and all the space feels evaporated from the room. The album is a weight in his palms. His hands would rather be feeling Bill than the grainy dust on a pile of forgotten photographs.

“With Brian, it’ll be different,” Holden assures him.

Bill scoffs. “Right.”

“Bill, I’m serious.”

Holden looks up at him. He searches his eyes for some confirmation that Bill believes it himself, but he finds nothing.

With a sigh, Holden drops his gaze and sets the album down on the counter. He closes it, concealing his past like he usually does with vague gestures and avoidances. He fiddles with the plasticky edge. It digs underneath his fingernail until it might draw blood, then he leaves it be.

Holden crosses the room to the refrigerator. An offer of something stronger than Bud Light readies itself on his tongue. But before he can speak, Bill puts a hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn around.

“Thanks,” Bill says, a bit strained but genuine.

A lump hardens in Holden’s throat. “For what?” 

“For what you said,” Bill explains. “Even if I can’t believe it myself, it’s good to have someone in my corner who does.”

Holden swallows and nods, a wordless acknowledgement and a thank you in return. Bill flexes his hand. Holden feels the breadth of his fingers on his shoulder. Warm, steadying, there.

Holden clears his throat. “Now how about that beer . . .”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my laptop unfinished for about four months or something. Finally got around to cleaning it up. It's kind of throwaway but I thought I would share it anyways since it's an attempt to give Holden a bit more of a backstory.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


End file.
